


Light

by Cloudnine101



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), The Legend of Sleepy Hollow - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Romance, Drunkenness, F/M, Friendship, Illnesses, Love, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Ichabod is a whirlwind.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light

_I look behind and after_

_and find that all is right,_

_in my deepest sorrows,_

_there is a soul of light._

 

 _Light_ , by Swami Vivekananda 

 

**1.**

 

Ichabod is a whirlwind. He spins around the room, a flurry of coat tails and height and _if we can just_ and _your wondrous Innernet - ah, Internet_ and _there must be a_ -

"Ichabod. Ichabod!" Abbie grabs onto his arm, yanking him back to the ground. "This isn't helping. Stand still, and _look at me_."

When he faces her, his eyes are wild; frantic. "There must be a way, leftenant. Some potion, or poultice, or-"

"There is nothing. Believe me, people have tried." Abbie releases his wrist; it drops to his side. "There isn't an answer, Crane. I'm sorry."

Ichabod's laughter is hoarse. "We have progressed so far in...in senseless areas, and yet we cannot find a solution for this?"

Abbie shrugs, swallowing, smiling. Keeping it together. "That's just how it is. Don't blame me - blame the scientists."

"If only it was that simple," Ichabod says - and there are arms around her, and Abbie leans into it, holding on, rubbing soothing circles into his shirt. Ichabod's head rests against her shoulder.

"It's OK," she finds herself saying, whispering, "we'll be OK. We'll figure something out. We'll be just fine. You'll see."

Ichabod smells of must, and warm leather, and sunny days spent in forests, lounging out on picnic blankets, in a time gone by.

Around her form, his arms tighten. She doesn't pull away; simply closes her eyes, and breathes.

 

**2.**

 

She starts getting more tired.

They're running through the woods, after some ghoul - there's moonlight, trickling in through the trees. Hawley is a few feet ahead, and Ichabod's somewhere in the distance. Abbie holds the flashlight in one hand, and her gun in the other.

"Crane!" she yells - and then the air's gone, and she gasps, stumbling, chest tight. There's a rubber band, wrapped around her middle - and it's squeezing and squeezing, and no sound can get past it.

Hawley slides to a stop, turning on his heel. "Abbie?"

She waves a hand. "I'm...I'm fine. Go after him. He needs you." Hawley hesitates; looks forwards, looks back. "Go!"

Hawley does. His footfalls echo; branches snap. Somewhere, a raven flutters upwards, screaming.

Abbie is left alone.

"Damn it," she mutters, straightens up, and carries on.

 

**3.**

 

Afterwards, Hawley finds her in the cabin, washing her hands in the sink. There's mud all over them - most likely, from when she fell. It won't come out. It'll get all over the sofa, if she doesn't deal - and Mr 'Basic Living Standards' won't appreciate it, no matter what he claims. It must be part of the condition - time travellers and tidy homes.

"Something's wrong," Nick says, from the doorway. Abbie faces him, turning off the tap. It clicks, loudly. "What is it?"

Abbie barks out a laugh. "Aside from the end of the world? Nothing much."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Nick crosses the room; halts in front of her. In the gloom, his hair looks more brown than gold. One fingertip traces her cheek. "Come on. Spill."

Her boots leave mud-stains, as she shifts her feet. When she meets his eyes, she's pretty sure she's smiling. Hawley's hand falls away. "Six months. That's how long I've got."

Hawley sucks in a breath. "Does-"

"Yeah. He knows."

Nick nods. "Right," he says, and then: "Wow."

Abbie snorts. "That's all you've got to say? 'Wow'?"

Hawley's smile is lopsided. "Hell, yeah. You know me. Man of few words."

"I thought you were going to say something noble. Something like..." Abbie strikes up a pose, one hand on her hip. "Seeing as the end is upon us, would you like to come out for a drink, Abigail?"

Nick's lip twitches. "Is that your way of asking?"

Abbie shrugs; she smiles. "Could be."

Hawley's teeth are very, very white. "In that case," he says, "I accept."

 

**4.**

 

She returns to the cabin at four in the morning, swaying on her feet. Nick holds the door open for her; she laughs, leaning into his touch, warm against her bare flesh. Nick's hand lingers on her arm - a firm, solid pressure. He swallows. "So, Abbie-"

She shakes her head, smile falling away. "Not tonight."

"Not tonight," he echoes. His fingers curl, around the inside of her wrist. Abbie goes to pull away, only to find her hand being drawn upwards, and lips placed against it. Hawley's stubble scratches, as he steps away. "He ain't the only gentleman."

Nick winks, once, before the door clicks shut. Abbie stares at it, for a while, before turning away. The night was too cold, outside; she shivers, rubbing her arms, as she flicks on the light. The sound of Hawley's motorbike recedes; the thrum-thrum-thrum growing quieter, until she can't hear it at all.

Abbie turns around, and leaps out of her skin.

"Jesus, Crane! Don't do that!"

From the couch, Ichabod stares at her, levelly. "I was simply waiting for your return, Miss Mills. I thought that would be acceptable. Apparently, it was not."

Abbie blinks. "Wait - what?"

Ichabod moves to his feet, in one fluid motion. It's a little mesmerising. "I can see that I...interrupted proceedings with Mister Hawley, somewhat. I would like to say that you have my full blessing, and should not...restrain yourself on my behalf. Be that as it may, I would prefer if your...intercourse occurred in private."

Ichabod's mouth snaps shut; he takes a step away, towards the stairs. Abbie reaches out, taking hold of his coat. The fabric bunches, beneath her fingertips. Ichabod looks downwards, pausing.

"Crane," Abbie says, slowly, "I don't know what planet you're currently inhabiting, but there will be no...intercourse going on, between Nick and I - now, or ever. Got that?"

Ichabod's brow furrows. "You seemed relatively intimate, upon entry."

Abbie groans, eyes flying upwards. "I'm too drunk for this. Look...I don't want Nick. Not like that. And if you think just because I'm...because this is happening, that I'm gonna run after the first guy I meet, you obviously don't know me as well as I thought. OK?"

"I...it appears I was mistaken. Please accept my sincerest condolences. It...it won't happen again. Goodnight."

Abbie nods. "Fine." Ichabod backs off; starts for the door, chin raised, shoulders tensed. "Crane?"

Ichabod stops. "Leftenant?" 

Abbie takes a breath; takes another. "It's alright for you to call me Abbie. If you want. I mean-"

"I understand." Ichabod's smile is strangely soft, as he speaks. "Goodnight, Abbie."

The world sways, sickeningly; Abbie presses a hand to her side, trying to stop the movement. When she looks up, the room is empty, aside from herself, and the charts on the table.

"Goodnight, Ichabod."


End file.
